


Even on the Bad Days

by bellinibeignet



Series: It's Easy to Remember [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst, Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:15:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's mother dies, and Eames does the best he can to keep them steady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even on the Bad Days

 

 

Arthur slept peacefully, more so than most would imagine, with his jawline soft, his thin lips slipped just enough to see the wetness of his tongue. His breath was always steady and heavy, but not enough to snore. He wasn’t a deep sleeper, but he had moments where getting him from his slumber was a bit more difficult. Those were the nights where he dreamed. Rare nights.

Tonight was one of those nights. Eames was watching him sleep now, watching his eyes shift behind his eyelids, deep, deep in a dream. He hadn’t woken up when the phone rang, even though it startled Eames, a much deeper sleeper, awake at three a.m.

He already knew that this was going to be the biggest test, the heaviest challenge. They’d had ups and downs in their time, fighting and figuring out what it all meant – being together. But that was a thing of the past now. They’d gotten as close as they could to stability, and, as desperately as Arthur had hoped they would achieve that, Eames didn’t want to ruin it. A year of solitude, of coming together and creating one space, without trouble or fights in the street. He didn’t want to break that streak of near-perfection.

But, that was out of his control now.

“Love,” Eames whispered, nipping his nose against Arthur’s bare shoulder. Over the years, being next to each other as much as they were had altered their body chemistries. Arthur’s scent still maintained the expensive musk of the soap he used, but there was a pinch of Eames in there, his natural scent that smelled vaguely of clover.

He whispered his name and slipped his hand around Arthur’s stomach, pulling him from where he slept on his side. The response was a groan as he was laid on his back.

“Wake up,” Eames said gently. “Come on.”

Arthur slowly opened his eyes, and Eames’ already thumping heart seemed to get louder.

“What time is it?” Arthur asked groggily.

“Three and a bit. I need to talk to you.”

“Right now?” He shut his eyes, lolling between his dream and reality.

“Your brother called.”

Arthur’s body stiffened, and Eames instinctively moved even closer until his navel was pressed against Arthur’s sharp hipbone. He drummed the hand on his stomach lightly, as a comfort for his partner, but a preparation for himself.

“Your mother passed.”

Arthur was visibly more woken up now, his brow tightening in either confusion or disbelief, as if he’d misheard. “I - what?”

Eames didn’t want to say it twice. But he had to. “Laura died, love.”

Eames laid quietly, watching Arthur get out of bed, scratching at his disheveled hair, looking to either side of him – out of the small window, noticing the summer rain, and then to his desk – before grabbing his cell phone from the bedside table and walking lethargically into the loo.

Eames sat up, bending his knees to rest his arms like a bridge across them. He rested his nose in his elbow, watching Arthur, always watching Arthur.

He left the en suite door open as he dialed someone – his half-brother – and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he relieved himself over the toilet. Eames knew that Arthur could feel him watching, listening while he washed his hands, asking questions of how, what, and when, voice seeming a mere ghost of his usual bass tone. Eames watched as he mumbled through a goodbye and set his phone aside.

For a long time, he stood, staring at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Then, he gripped at either side of the sink and bent his head down, a very quiet “Shit…” slipping from his mouth.

Eames finally lifted himself from the sheets and came up behind Arthur, sliding his hands around his hips, kissing his shoulder blade.

He waited and waited, unsure if Arthur was crying or merely collecting his thoughts. He would stand there forever if he had to.

Arthur spoke. “I need to book a plane. My aunt is driving in from New York and will be there in the morning.”

Eames gave a gentle tug at his hips, asking him quietly to turn around. Arthur obliged easily, lifting his eyes. They were clear as day without any sign of tears. Just weakness.

“I’m coming with you,” Eames said easily.

“You have a job in a couple of days.”

“I’ll tell ‘em to find someone else.”

“Eames, that’s –“

“Do you honestly think that you’re going to convince me otherwise? Michelson can piss off.” He paused, letting Arthur’s eyes take in his adamancy. “I cared for her, too, but that isn’t the point, is it? I want – need – to be where you are when something like this happens.”

Arthur nodded, and suddenly, he looked almost childlike despite approaching thirty in just a few months. His Adam’s apple was noticeably lodged in his stomach, his swallows audible.

“You make the coffee,” Eames whispered, placing his hands on either side of Arthur’s face. “I’ll worry about flights and the packing and what not.”

“You’re shit at packing a bag,” Arthur managed.

Eames kissed him on the corner of his mouth, then on his lips, and went back into the bedroom.

For a few moments, Eames felt Arthur watching him, still standing in the bathroom, but Eames didn’t chance a look back. He needed Arthur to move on his own. He needed him to try by himself.

Would Eames carry Arthur over his shoulders to any finish line presented to him? Yes. Did he want to? Sometimes, sure. Would Arthur resent him if he didn’t give him every single moment to take care of himself, even at his weakest? Absolutely.

Eames pulled open his laptop and logged in when Arthur clicked the light out in the loo, leaving the bedroom for the kitchen. When he reappeared twenty minutes later, he was bearing coffee mugs and, surprisingly, grilled cheese sandwiches. Eames looked up from the desk as Arthur set a plate down for him. Before he could get away, Eames took Arthur’s wrist and pulled him down for a light kiss, a kiss that asked for nothing.

Arthur sat on the bed.

“A flight at nine. Layover in Amsterdam. We’ll get there late tonight. How’s that?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Should I find a hotel or -?”

“No. We can just stay at Ma’s.”

Eames looked over his shoulder. Arthur was looking back at him, his cup of coffee on the nightstand, his sandwich on the plate, unbitten. Eames had seen his eyes beg before, and the intent was always rather blatant; the darkness of his pupils would widen and they would spill with warmth, with lust, with love.

But this need was a different kind of need. It was so hidden and unfamiliar to either of them that Eames nearly overlooked it.

Nearly.

Eames went to the bed. “Come here.” His voice was soft, but it was a demand. He put an arm out and let Arthur curve into his body. Then, he waited, waited until the lithe body he was holding started making shuttering jolts as he cried.

-

Eames met Laura Way just a few months before he was set to buy the house in Edinburgh. Arthur had been avoiding the family introduction, making sure that Laura didn’t know whenever Eames was in Boston, even if Eames was sort of anxious for it, wanted to meet the woman who raised the man he loved. There was no doubt that Eames would’ve brought Arthur to meet his mother far before it was appropriate, and he still wished he had that opportunity.  

Before Eames could feel that Arthur was ashamed of him, Laura got in the way. Somehow, she got hold of Eames’ number and called him, inviting him for the Memorial Day weekend.

“You can bring Arthur with you if you want. Makes no difference to me. He’d probably bring us down anyway.”

She was so intriguing, and Eames loved the woman just from the stories he’d heard, the pictures he’d seen, and the few occasions where she demanded Arthur give him the phone so she could say hello.

When Eames asked why Arthur and her always seemed to argue and feign annoyance with one another, he never got much of an answer.

“That’s just how we have always been. We love one another, but it’s an egging game.” He huffed. “You wouldn’t blame me. She can be a bit of a – what would you say? – a chav.”

Laura and Arthur Way were incredibly different in attitude and perceptions, but they did have one thing in common: independence. Neither of them seemed the type to ask anyone else for anything, and Eames assumed it was because they’d only had one another when Arthur was growing up.

Arthur told Eames the story of his father in many different ways, because there wasn’t just one story, according to Laura.

“My dad changed depending on her fucking mood,” he said one night in the very beginning. “If I was doing something good, I was just like my father: the business man with the dark hair and nice smile. If I was slagging off, I was just like my father: the deadbeat lowlife.

“When I got old enough to seriously ask who my dad was, she told me that she honestly didn’t know. I’ve actually never been mad at her for that. Ma gave me everything I ever needed, even when she had to fight tooth and nail for it.”

Rory was Arthur’s half-brother, two years older, who was raised by his dad in the suburbs of Boston. Laura had him when she was twenty years old, and she knew that she couldn’t provide. The dad, Joe, was married, and, for some reason, the wife forgave him for his indiscretion. In fact, later, Laura and the woman were amicable, despite being what society would see as two different classes of women.

“Ma is the type to wear velour jumpsuits and chunky jewelry and pink eye-shadow, you know? Missy – my brother’s step-mom – wore dresses and pearls. She was a proper housewife, and my mom was an around-the-way girl. But, after a while, they seemed to understand one another, got along well.

“I think it was for me and Rory’s sake. Missy Joe couldn’t have kids, and they have those snobby rich friends who would’ve judged them for adopting another kid so he could have a brother or sister – as if raising Rory wasn’t already unheard of. I guess they thought it would be good for me to be in his life. My mom wanted the same thing; I didn’t have my dad, and Joe had no obligation to me. Rory was a guy I could look up to.”

Eames would’ve never thought that Arthur came from such a ripped life, as put together as he was. That attested to his sheer will and grace. Eames came from the sort of house that Rory grew up in – with the dinner parties and housekeepers and China cabinets – and the good Lord knew how that fell apart.

Eames loved Laura from the moment they walked in her house. It was crammed from corner to corner with photographs, she had a beer in her hand, and she skipped over Arthur to hug Eames like he was her long lost kid. Something about it all made Eames miss his own mother, but also gave him a familial feeling he never really had at home.

“Well aren’t you a handsome guy,” she’d said, pushing him onto the couch before telling Arthur to take their bags up to his old room. “Why in the world are you with that kid?” she asked with an infectious laugh.

“You know, I ask myself the same thing,” Eames chuckled in return.

She squealed. “Fuckin’ English.” She looked to Arthur when he came back downstairs. “His accent, Artie. How great is that? I mean, I heard it on the phone, but here in the flesh?”

“Ma.”

“What? What?” she groaned, annoyed. She patted Eames’ knee. “It’s sexy. Say something else.”

“Ma!”

Laura was Arthur’s hero, Eames knew, but you wouldn’t think it as much as they bumped heads. In fact, although he’d never say it aloud, Eames could see how Arthur ended up in his arms. Laura was color and imagination, while Arthur was meticulous and neutral. Before Eames, the one person who’d give anything for him was Laura, and she was wild and flamboyant, a diva.

Well, that said everything, didn’t it?

“You’re perfect for Artie,” she grinned over dinner, and by now, Arthur was loose and smiling and laughing. “Can’t believe he hid you from me for this long.”

Before arriving, Arthur said he hadn’t been worried about bringing a boyfriend home, even if he’d never done that before. Eames assumed that, if he didn’t think his mother would approve, he would’ve never brought him in the first place. In fact, if his mother wouldn’t have approved, he probably wouldn’t have gotten very serious with Eames in the first place.

Arthur was actually afraid that he wouldn’t like Laura. Which was insane. She was fantastic.

“It’s a nice little balance,” she continued. “He needed some excitement, huh?”

“He’s plenty exciting,” Eames smiled Arthur’s way. “With the right combination of liquor and compliments, of which I offer plenty.”

Laura cackled, and God she had a laugh.

“You’re giving too much away now,” Arthur scowled playfully, drinking his beer. “And I’ve seen you drunk. So, don’t start.”

“Tit for tat, love.”

Laura gushed. “Love. That’s precious, isn’t it, Artie? He calls you ‘love’.”

“He’s British, Ma.”

“Now, now,” Eames said, offended. “I only call you that. Don’t put me off.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said, but it was true enough.

“So, will the two of you do that adopting thing?”

“Ma!” Arthur’s voice nearly faltered into a squeal at that, and Eames chuckled.

“What, Artie? It’s just a question!”

“Did you really think that was a good question to ask?” His voice was cracking in a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, Ma.”

She shrugged and dug into her spaghetti that had gone half-eaten from her talking so much. “The world’s changin’, Arthur. You can move here and marry and have kids. Better family than I could’ve ever given you.” She pointed her fork Eames’ way. “This one’s got his head up his ass for you, I can tell. He asked you to move to a different country for Christ’s sake. And _you_ said yes!” She laughed, rubbing gently at Eames’ bicep. “Yeah. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Arthur looked to Eames, and Eames didn’t say anything outside of a guilty and crooked smile.

Arthur shook his head. “Don’t encourage her.” But there was a bit of a blush in his cheeks.

-

 

The cab pulled in front of Arthur’s old home, and it looked exactly as it had when Eames visited last: the chipped blue shutters and the flamingo in the garden. It was a charming little place. He half-expected Laura to come out with her arms open, a pair of chunky heels and sunglasses (despite the late hour) to match the color of the day’s jumpsuit. That was what happened when people died. You can’t scratch the memories of them in their livelihood.

Arthur’s Mercedes was sitting in the driveway, shiny and clean, nearly glowing in the dark. As they walked past it, Arthur shook his head. “She is such a diva. I knew she was driving that thing.”

Eames knew that Arthur had actually given her the car without actually saying it. When he moved to Edinburgh permanently, he’d told her to keep it in her garage and not to touch it, just to egg with her. The car was hers, though. That was the game they played.

Eames flipped the light switch and they stood inside the doorway in silence for a second, and it was painful to watch Arthur resist yelling out ‘Ma! We’re here!’ It was obvious in his demeanor, and Eames had gone through the same thing when his own mother died.

“I’ll take our stuff upstairs,” Eames whispered, taking Arthur’s bag from him.

Arthur’s room still looked like it had in high school, with posters of his favorite movies, all of his books, drawings and paintings. There was even a half-finished canvas in the corner that Arthur chastised her for keeping the last time they’d visited.

Eames set the bags near his desk, and as he left, something caught his eye that he had never noticed. On the pinboard above Arthur’s desk was a photo of Arthur as a child – easily four or five – on the back of a boy who looked a lot like Laura. More so than Arthur did.

According to Arthur, he’d discovered who his dad was more likely to be when he was a senior in high school. His aunt told him (drunkenly) that Laura had an on-and-off thing with a businessman who came in and out of the bar she worked at. He was handsome and lanky with dark hair and didn’t talk very much, but that was all she really knew.

Arthur said he wasn’t interested. “Whether my mom knew or not, she made a decision and I trust her with it. Maybe one day I’ll feel like chasing after him, but I haven’t yet. My life is perfect as is.”

That said a lot about how Arthur took his trust with the ones he loved.

Arthur had just hung up his phone when Eames got downstairs. They smiled wearily at one another.

“Rory is coming over first thing in the morning. He’s bringing Ally and Forrest.”

“Didn’t he just have another?”

“Leaving the baby at home with his wife.”

“Has he told the kids?”

Arthur shook his head no.

“I’ll distract them so you two can talk.”

Arthur gave a weak smile as Eames pulled him in. “Who gave you permission to be this good to me?” He slipped his hands to Eames’ shoulders.

Eames shrugged. “I’m just a bloke.”

They shared a careful kiss, trying their best to ignore the heavy silence of the house. There was no sound of laughter or Bon Jovi singing or late night television. Nothing seemed familiar anymore.

“I can’t be in here right now,” Arthur whispered when they pulled from one another. He looked around. “This place was always too fucking small. I told her to let me buy her a new place a long time ago.”

Eames only nodded.

“I wish you weren’t trying to give up,” Arthur sighed, walking through the swinging door into the kitchen. Eames followed. “I could probably smoke an entire pack of cigarettes right now.”

They went onto the small deck at the back of the house. Eames lay easily in the full lawn chair while Arthur leaned over the railing and looking into the back yard, out into the cityscape.

“We used to sit out here when I was a kid, just me and her. I always liked how the buildings looked on the skyline. Especially at night. I think one of my earliest memories was being here with her on the 4th of July and seeing all of the colors over the city.”

Eames could imagine that being true. Arthur’s dreamscapes were angular and clean, but had touches of warmth, of color. Looking up at the skyline now, glowing in the dark, he smiled to himself. It was different from Edinburgh, much more modern and lit, but it was beautiful, even from the not-so-good part of town.

“I didn’t tell you, but she asked us to come. For Independence Day. I said no because we were working. I should’ve come anyway.” He paused. “How could she not tell me she was sick?” Arthur said lowly, obviously to himself, but Eames chose to answer.

“She was only protecting you, love. My mum was sick for a few years before she told me. And you know how Laura is. She’s a firecracker.”

Arthur turned and leaned his back into the rail, making eye contact. “It still doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Nothing will make you feel better,” he offered gently.

Arthur’s eyes glazed over Eames, and a stubborn smirk slipped onto his lips. He came off the railing and made his way to the lawn chair, crawling up the length of Eames’ legs until he was carefully mounted over his lap. “You could try,” he offered.

Eames shook his head. “Arthur…”

“You think saying my name like that is going to help you?” He let his hands slip into Eames’ spring jacket to rub at his ribs, a dangerous spot.

Eames grunted, obviously in opposition, but Arthur didn’t seem to hear either way. He dipped his head down to suck at Eames’ neck, and lifted his shirt so he could grasp and scratch at his skin. There wasn’t a lot of turning Arthur away once he convinced himself that he wanted something.

“You should chill, love,” Eames managed, even though his hands delightfully found Arthur’s hips.

He moaned, his mouth moving with heated kisses to Eames’ ear. He was en route to trigger every spot he knew. “No.” His hands gripped again at Eames’ sides, then fell to the button on his jeans, relieving it and the zipper in a swift motion.

“Arthur, this isn’t the right time for… this,” Eames said, this time a bit more stern.

Arthur kept his mouth hot at Eames ear. “Not even a little bit?” He rocked his weight down into Eames' lap, and the chair old beach chair squeaked beneath them. When Eames said nothing, Arthur laughed, quiet, and his tone sounded strange, unlike him in many ways. This laugh was dark, not kind or gentle or amused like usual.

"Love, we really - we really shouldn't," Eames tried again.

Arthur dug carefully into his Eames' open jeans and found him warm and hardening. Arthur muttered something under his breath - they weren't words, as far as Eames could tell - and then he took Eames' cock in a gentle grip, coaxing a growl that Eames cursed himself for. 

“You want me?” Arthur asked huskily.

" _Christ have it_."

With surprising smoothness, Eames hooked his arm around Arthur’s waist and changed their positions, pressing him down into the chair with a roll of his hips.

“Fuck, Arthur,” he gasped when Arthur’s hand tightened around him. He kissed at Arthur's mouth, full on, and with that distraction, he pulled Arthur's hand out of his pants. Still, the kiss continued, Arthur not realizing that Eames wouldn't be taking this further. “Please let me tell you ‘no’,” Eames begged into his mouth. “Don’t do this to yourself, love.”

The kiss slowed gradually from its fervor, but Arthur kept gripping tightly at Eames’ sides, pulling him down desperately, locking his ankles at the backs of Eames' thighs.

When the kiss stopped, Eames pulled back to look down at him, his Arthur, so broken and unaware, unsure.

“Let’s go wash that flight off and get some sleep,” Eames suggested.

“I want you to touch me,” Arthur huffed.

“I’ll always touch you,” Eames replied immediately, nodding his head at how their bodies were hooked into one another. “I’m always touching you.” He then shook his head. “I’ll touch you forever if that’s really what you wanted… but we both know well that isn’t what you want right now. Not tonight and not here.”

They stayed like that, teetering between making love and having a fight, silent until Arthur finally nodded. Eames was relieved and lowered his lips into that man’s neck, kissing it gently, because God this was love, and Eames wanted to take every precaution not to fuck it up..

-

Ally was six years old, and had grown into a lanky thing since Eames had seen her at Christmas. Forrest, three, was still quiet and observant, but not as shy as he used to be. He looked a lot like his father and Uncle, raven haired with high cheekbones.

Eames lay across the floor of the deck, teaching Ally to play checkers while Forrest was playing distractedly with the Tetris game on Eames’ cell phone.

“What’s Daddy and Uncle Awtie talkin’ about?” Forrest asked in his quiet voice, looking up from his game to the glass doors that separated the deck from the kitchen.

Arthur and Rory were sitting at the kitchen table making arrangements. Eames had glanced over every few minutes as well, just because it was hard not to look at him when he was so close.

“About Ma Laura,” Ally said in her matter-of-fact but delicate voice. Usually she would be annoyed by her little brother’s questions, but she seemed particularly protective of him today. “Remember what daddy said this morning. She’s in heaven.”

Forrest nodded, and his bottom lip curled into his mouth bashfully. “I don’t know why Ma Laura doesn’t want to come back.”

Eames put up a single finger to Ally before she could say anything. She put her hands in her lap, staring at the checkerboard.

“Listen, sweethearts,” Eames said quietly. “C’mon. Chin up.” They both looked up at him. If Laura had one strong feature, it was her brown eyes: slender and breathtaking. Eyes that the half-brothers in the kitchen shared. The eyes that the kids before him shared. “Ma Laura would love to be here with you guys like always. She didn’t leave you because she wanted to.”

Ally looked hesitant. “I heard Daddy tell Mommy that Ma Laura was sick. Cancer.”

Eames knew that he probably wasn’t the person to have this conversation. They weren’t his kids, or related to him in any way. He was the guy their uncle was dating. They seemed to love him as family, though, and he loved them just the same, oddly enough.

“Can we have a conversation between us, yeah?”

They nodded a bit eagerly.

He picked up a checker piece, a red one, like the totem he could feel in his pocket. He flipped it across his knuckles thoughtfully. “My mum went to heaven when I was a bit older than you. It got me really down in the dumps. Like your dad and Uncle Artie are now, yeah?”

They nodded.

“The thing is, when someone you love goes to heaven, it hurts you in your heart, doesn’t it? Makes your stomach feel a bit empty.”

“Like you’re hungry?” Forrest asked.

“No, not like hunger. Just like… all of your insides have disappeared.”

“That’s what I feel like,” Ally said quietly, like she was ashamed to admit it.

Eames sat up. He reached for the little blonde-haired girl and pulled her into his lap. She was old enough to understand death, so he was a bit more worried for her than Forrest. “You wanna know the secret to making yourself feel a wee bit better?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay. Shut your eyes.”

Both of the kids did as they were told, and Eames’ own eyes shot back into the house. Arthur was now standing at the door, looking back at him.

“Think of a really happy time you had with your Ma Laura.” He waited, eyes still on Arthur. “Got it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“How do you feel?”

Ally giggled. “Better.”

“What about you, kid?”

Forrest chuckled to himself. “Yeah.”

“How’d you do that?” Ally asked just as Arthur opened the door to come out. He sat down on the lawn chair and observed.

Eames smiled and looked down at the girl in his lap. Her eyes were open now, looking up at him expectantly.

“Where’d you get that memory from?” he asked her.

“My brain?”

“Mhmm,” he smiled, tapping the center of her forehead. “Your brain is an entire vault of memories and dreams that only _you_ have the key to. You open it up, and it spills all of your happiness and joy right into your heart.” He let his finger trail down the center of her face and poked at her chest. “That way your Ma Laura is always there with you.”

Ally wrapped her arms around Eames’ neck and planted a grateful kiss on his cheek. When she pulled back, she glanced at her uncle, then back to Eames. She lowered her head to tell him a secret. “I think Uncle Artie needs you to help him, too.”

“Really now?” He smiled Arthur’s way, knowing he could hear.

Ally nodded.

“I’ll be sure to do something about that.”

Rory called to his kids and they ran inside.

“So, are you secretly Superman, or something?” Arthur asked, joining Eames on the floor to help him clean up the checkerboard. “Come to Boston and save the day, huh?”

Eames shrugged. “Only counts if I end up saving you.” He smiled to himself. “And those kids are adorable. I’m a sucker.”

“You’re good with them.”

“Am I good with you?”

“Yes. You’re good with me.”

-

When they spent Christmas in Boston, Laura had a bad cold, coughing and sneezing through the night, sound billowing through her small house. Eames was sleeping fine, but Arthur had tossed and turned enough to wake him up before he could settle comfortably into R.E.M. Twice. That was how it worked: if Arthur couldn’t sleep, Eames couldn’t either. The bastard.

“Go to sleep, love,” Eames whispered, getting up from the bed and going to find a t-shirt to slip on.

“Where are you going?” Arthur sat up, looking at Eames like a wide-eyed child who didn’t want to be on his own.

“Go to sleep.”

Eames knocked on Laura’s door and pushed it in. She was sitting up, blowing her nose.

“Everything okay?” she managed to ask with a shallow breath.

“Your son is cranky and you’re sneezing a lung out, but other than that…”

“I’m so sorry, hon.”

Eames shook his head. “Don’t. C’mon. Come downstairs with me, yeah?”

Eames put on a kettle, and made sure Laura stayed put on the couch, wrapped tightly in her blanket. As always, she was talking, relaying another story from Arthur’s childhood that would’ve embarrassed him had he been in the room.

Eames started a small fire after he’d given her tea.

“What do you believe in, Mr. Eames?” Her tone changed as he was finally settled into the couch cushion with her.

“Sorry?”

She repeated the question. “God? Angels and demons? Love? Nature?”

Eames blew over his cuppa, then shrugged. “All of that. All of those things are a lot bigger than me, I’ll tell you that. I don’t have much choice than to believe in it.”

She smiled. “There was a long time where I thought that kid didn’t believe in anything. All he wanted was to wear black clothes and move out of here. He could paint beautiful things, but didn’t want to show anybody. He had an ear for good music, but I don’t think I ever saw him smile or dance when any came on. Weird kid.”

Eames looked to the stairs, as if Arthur were going to appear.

“He believes in you, though,” she said, a smile in her voice that didn’t appear on her mouth. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have ever allowed you in. He would’ve never picked up his life here to live with you.”

Eames was silent for a long time. He could see a map of themselves, their lifelines crossing paths, straight grey lines turning dangerous and red, becoming twisted and convoluted as sleeping together just wasn’t enough, still not knowing exactly how to love someone.

Then, somehow, their two paths bound perfectly around one another, heading in the same direction smoothly and hopeful, finally getting it right, finally letting go to enjoy the journey.

When Eames asked Arthur to live with him, he’d been more nervous than he’d ever felt in his life, and he’d been a captain in the army for crying out loud.

Arthur hadn’t hesitated, though. Which was unlike him. Incredibly unlike him, actually. That probably said a lot about how much trust he’d had in Eames. Just a few months before that proposal, they’d been at one another’s throats, threatening to part, but that didn’t matter. None of that mattered now.

Here they were spending their first Christmas with Arthur’s mum, like a normal couple did. A milestone. A landmark.

“I’ve seen him dance. He’s not bad.”

Laura grinned. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Eames shook his head. “No, no. A little stiff at the worst of times, but you get him drunk enough, he can really get going.”

She was caught between laugh and coughing, and Eames chuckled, rubbing her back to soothe her.

“Drink your tea,” he said. “It’s perfect for a cold. You’ll wake up good as new.”

She did as she was told. “I’m glad he’ll have you,” she said finally. “When he doesn’t have me.”

“That’s for him to decide,” Eames told her carefully. “I’m only around as long as he’ll have me.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m telling you: stay with him. I know he can be difficult – he’s always been that way, and, I swear, he didn’t get it from me – but it’s only because he thinks he’s going to get hurt. Do you plan on hurting him?”

“No, mum.” He couldn’t imagine it.

“Make sure he knows it. Because the moment he feels a threat, he’ll push you away. He’ll try to catch the glass before the milk spills.”

Eames nodded. He’d been through it. He’d seen it. He’d been pushed out of Arthur’s door. He’d been held at a distance for quite a while before they slipped into one another as perfectly as they were now. And, even with the feeling of stability finally around them, it didn’t mean that the floors wouldn’t give away one day. It didn’t mean that troubles wouldn’t meet them in the future.

“Promise that, if you love him, you’ll try, even on the worst of days.”

Eames took her hand. “Yeah. Promise.”

 

+++

 

The home in Edinburgh didn’t feel the same as it once did. Setting up their lives together, sharing the same space, knowing the guarantee of coming home to someone who loved them was a priceless attribute. The energy was always bright and warm, even in temperamental Scotland weather. Something was so peaceful, like a fortress just for them to just _be_. When both were home, they could sleep in, stay up late, make love, eat whatever they liked. There were no oceans between them anymore. No guessing.

Now, that ‘honeymoon’ warmth was a distant memory. Arthur had returned from Boston with his aura changed, curtaining every room with his gloom and darkness. It was almost enough to make Eames rather stand out in the rain.

Things had never been particularly easy with Arthur, and perhaps that was how Eames knew that his love was real. His point man wasn't the best at compartmentalizing, at applying the right emotions to the right circumstance, and that was something he’d gotten used to. Mostly.

For weeks now, Eames let Arthur walk around in silence, give short answers in conversation, lay around watching the telly, wrapped in a blanket like it would protect him, keep him warmer than Eames could.

Eames accepted that there were no more easy kisses, no more romantic affection. There hadn't been a gentle touch or nuanced kiss since Laura's funeral, where Arthur didn't let go of Eames' hand during the entire service. And, God, how he had squeezed so tightly.

Now, Eames couldn't get close to him without him making an excuse to move away. Now, the only time they seemed to touch was under Arthur's terms, when he came up to Eames in a fashion much like he had on Laura's deck. Except now, Arthur didn't take no for an answer. And, admittedly starved for affection, Eames didn't know what to do but accept it. To let him have his way.

Now, Eames was tired of it. He wasn’t this man. He’d made promises. He’d imagined vows.

“Harder,” was the command. “Fuck me.”

He was over it.

Two years. Two years since the night Arthur showed up on his doorstep to give him a good birthday, not knowing that Eames was now an orphan. Gave him something to think about, something to look forward to, something to believe in.

A year and a half since Arthur first said he loved him, since he said it aloud and meant it, and Eames told him he wasn’t leaving him again.

One year since Arthur said he’d live with Eames, his first ‘I do’.

Three weeks since Laura died, and Arthur cried for the first time.

Eames wasn’t going to backtrack. He wasn’t going to let the solid ground around them sink away. He wasn’t going to lose his home. Arthur was home. He was everything that mattered in the world.  

“Goddammit, Arthur.” He pulled away, sitting up on his knees at the center of their bed, his face planted frustratedly into his hands. “I’m not doing this shit anymore.”

He looked up and watched Arthur turn from his position on his stomach. His dark eyes were laced with confusion, but didn’t seem all that disappointed that Eames was no longer inside. Didn’t seem to miss him. And that was the fucking point, wasn’t it?

“Doing what?” He sat up, pulling a sheet over himself. Like they were strangers. Like Eames didn’t know of the long scar on his inner thigh, of the birthmark shaped like Madagascar low on his hipbone. Like Eames hadn’t ravished those areas over and over in both reality and the dreamscape.

“I’m not fucking you like I’m a stranger just because you’re afraid to feel something right now,” Eames spat, tossing his hands helplessly in the air. “Tell me: when was the last time you needed to give me _instructions_ on how to make you feel good?”

Arthur scoffed, like it was a ridiculous question, but it most certainly wasn’t. Eames knew Arthur’s body as if he’d created it himself. As if he’d drawn up every curve and dip and sensitive spot. Needing commands from Arthur were of days long past, and yet, here they were. Nearly a month of this shit. Of _harder_ and _fuck me_ and _no, no, like this_.

“I can’t fuck away your sadness. I thought I made that clear enough. I-I tried to. Believe me, I tried.” He went back to him, slipping a hand to his lover’s cheek and looking down into his eyes. “The part of you that wants to be fucked is out of my reach. The part of you that wants healing is just a shade of you, the curtain of your depression. I’d love to make it go away, but no amount of rough and distant sex is gonna eradicate that.

“Next time this happens, I want to make love to Arthur. That’s the only way I’ll ever touch you again. Is if you let me back in. I want _my_ Arthur. I want to look in his eyes and show him a proper healing. But this bullocks is over.”

He started to climb out of the bed, reaching for his flannel pajama pants on the floor.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asked quietly.

“I’m gonna go watch telly until my balls aren’t blue, and pass out on the couch.”

Eames lay watching reruns of an old sitcom, concentrating hard enough that his body finally relaxed and forgot about the tightness of Arthur’s body. God knew he would’ve loved to find some relief, but his mind was a mangled mess.

And then there was Arthur, tiptoeing into the living room, bending down in front of the couch, giving Eames his attention. His eyes were red, and he’d obviously done his best to cry as quietly as he could in their bedroom. If Eames had known, he would’ve gone back. He would’ve held him.

“I don’t want to sleep without you if I don’t have to,” Arthur whispered.

Eames nodded, shutting off the telly and adjusting himself so that there was room for Arthur to lay next to him.

Arthur tucked himself into Eames’ chest and cocooned them in the sheet he was wrapped in. He hummed at their closeness, like something was clicking, like love had finally come back down to bless the spaces they shared.

Eames pressed his lips into the top of Arthur’s mussed hair, and they slept easily. 

**Author's Note:**

> Next projects for this verse:
> 
> The first time (time to get a bit lemon-y in this verse). Then, we'll get back to present day for one large piece, or a piece in two parts. 
> 
> Should have a new story in the coming weeks. Thanks for reading.


End file.
